Adaptation
by Shelbecat
Summary: Jason's the new Assistant Coach for the Panthers and Tim has trouble adjusting to his friend being back on the field with him.
1. Chapter 1

**Spoilers**: S1 (not based on any spoilers for S2)  
**Disclaimer**:I own the idea, everything else belongs to NBC

**Adaptation  
****Part 1**

In Dillon, the hottest day of the year isn't the longest. And it isn't a long, lazy Sunday in late July. It's the first day of fall football practice, when you've got 50 pounds of gear on your back and the sun is baking you like an egg of the sidewalk.

Tim can barely focus against the heat wavering off the astro turf. When the new head coach barks a play in his ear, he winces and feels every one of last night's beers. His feet are cement blocks in his cleats, but he plods out on the field with the rest of the offense and runs play after play until his chest burns and he wants nothing more than to fall down and sleep right there on the 50 yard line.

The bench hits his ass when he finally takes a water break and he shakes the sound of Mac screaming at Smash out of his head. The water is cold, but it feels like steam on his skin—doing little to ward off the heat. From the corner of his eye Tim sees Saracen jogging up to him. Matt takes a seat on the bench, still looking as fresh as if he just rolled out of bed.

"Man, Street is all over me today," Matt says.

Tim opens his eyes a little wider and looks over to where Jay is hollering at the back-up quarterback to follow through. _On your toes, point your fingers, be the ball._ Tim scoffs and drags his eyes back to the grass at his feet. He knew Jay was here; he saw him in the dressing room and heard him yelling from the sidelines. But Jay hasn't shot any orders in Tim's direction and that's just fine with him. It was one thing to get yelled at by your QB when you missed a block and cost him 10 yards. But Jay's not playing anymore, and Tim's not sure he can see his drinking buddy as his coach.

The second half of practice is even harder than the first. When they line up to run a play, it's Jay screaming from the sidelines and Tim has to close his eyes to shake the image of Jay standing only five feet to his left, calling the same play.

There's a movement to his right and Tim pops up a second too late. When Bradley catches him unaware, his bones rattle in his skin like a bird fighting to escape its cage. Tim stops still on the field, tries to hang on, then falls to one knee. His breath is coming in short gasps and for the first time he thinks that football might actually kill him someday.

There is a rush of activity around him when he doesn't get up fast enough. He's fine; just a hard hit. He fights to shrug off the arms helping him to his feet, but his legs wobble when he stands and he falls against the closest player. Smash.

"Watch it, Riggs. You gotta save some for the season, man."

Tim tries to smile although he's sure it comes out more like a grimace. The bench is a mile away but somehow he makes it and collapses hard against the wood. He's bent over, taking shallow breaths and willing his ribs to rise back into place, when he sees the wheels.

Jay's parked right in front of him. There are only two things Tim can think of that Street will offer him—concern over how bad he's hurt, or a kick in the ass to get back out there. Neither of which are welcome.

"Tough hit."

Jay's voice sounds far away, like maybe Bradley hit Tim's ears too.

Tim nods and focuses on the grass. It's amazing how lifelike it looks, but real grass feels soft beneath your skin, astro turf is like razor blades—Tim's got the burn marks to prove it.

"You need a trainer"

Tim's head is foggy; doesn't the trainer always come anyway? He looks up slowly, eyes open just enough to see Jay's form in front of him. Jay's mouth is moving, but Tim can't make out what he's saying. When Jason points down the bench, Tim manages to turn his head long enough to see the trainer hovering over some JV-recruit that probably forgot to stretch before he came out here.

There should be a pre-pre-football training camp just to weed out the imbeciles.

Turning his attention back to the ground and its fascinating intricacies, Tim shakes his head and mumbles, "S'okay."

Jay seems to hesitate, or at least his chair does a little rocking motion back and forth like he's not sure if he should leave. Then Tim feels a fist thump lightly on his back. "Good man. Take five and get back out there," Jason, the assistant coach, orders.

As Jay pushes away, Tim swears that he'll take six or ten or as long as he wants, but not exactly five solely because it's what Jay instructed. He's not sure why, but taking orders from his best friend is pissing him off more than even being here.

He lies down on the bench and closes his eyes. The sun warms his skin and for the first time today he's grateful for the heat.

* * *

It used to be that an ice pack and a cold beer took care of any muscle aches from a practice session. But after three hours on the couch with twice as many beers and two melted ice packs, Tim still can't get his chest to fully expand. He rises slowly, leaning hard on the arm rest for support when he hears the door creak open.

He doesn't have to look to know its Jay. It's the back door. The one with the ramp that he and Billy put in over the summer. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—a free pass for Jay to come in whenever he wanted.

Now he's starting to rethink the wisdom of giving his coach a key to his house.

He grunts as his ribs grind together and he finally makes it upright. Just because he doesn't get up and answer the door or even call out to acknowledge Jason, doesn't mean he's ignoring him. This place is practically home to Six anyway. Tim doesn't need to make an effort.

The bottle of Advil on the counter could be still on the shelf at Wal-Mart for all the good it's doing Tim sitting there. He walks slowly across the room to get the pills, his limp more because he's afraid to push it than any injury to his leg.

"That was a tough hit today," Jason finally says.

He's parked in front of the Advil and Tim finally has to speak directly at him.

"You mind?" Tim manages, gesturing towards the pills. If Jay's asking how he's feeling, that should be answer enough.

Jay's quick to figure it out, skirting out of the way so Tim can finally reach the bottle and work off the cap. He tosses the pills in his mouth without thinking about a drink when suddenly there's Jay's gloved hand and a bottle of water appearing before him.

"You should really think about stocking more water and less beer, Timmy. Your muscles'll never recover if you don't rehydrate."

Tim swallows the pills without water and snatches the bottle a little too roughly.

"Jesus, Street," he mutters. "Were you always this self-righteous?"

Tim knows it was a cheap shot, but Jason's like a little puppy—he doesn't realize that getting kicked in the gut means you should stay down. He follows Tim into the living room and parks near the couch. Tim sinks into the cushions with a hiss escaping his clenched lips. He'd give anything to be stronger than the pain, but right now, he's in his own house on his own time and he really doesn't give a damn what 'Jason Street, Panthers Assistant Coach' thinks about him.

"You know, you could use a few one-on-one sessions. Not with me, maybe Davies or Mac. Build up your stamina. Really lean into those blocks."

Tim eyes him carefully; his tongue licking the corner of his lip in thought. "Is that what coach thinks, or you?"

"Me, coach…the coaching staff. What's the difference?"

"Because I'm not all that into you coaching me when I'm trying to relax, if that's okay with you, Coach Street."

Jason's eyes do that thing, that judging thing where they narrow just slightly, then recover so as not to reveal anything. Tim rolls his back in his head and wonders why he didn't get another beer when he was up. He's pondering the chances of Jay getting one for him when Street speaks up.

"If you want me to save it for the field, Tim, I can do that. I just figured you'd appreciate a little advance notice. Save you the surprise."

"Of what? Needing a private coach?"

"Of hearing that coach doesn't think your focus is good enough. Of finding out that being the toughest guy in the division might have been enough for Coach Taylor, but it isn't going to cut it with the new guy." Jason pants slightly, like the effort of spilling his guts takes something out of him.

The news is a surprise, but Tim has already put too many hours into football for one day. The pills haven't kicked in yet and his ribs are screaming. He wants to shift into a comfortable position, if one exists, but he won't give Jay the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Jay's voice is softer when he speaks again. "Maybe you want to change your tough guy act before it gets you kicked off the team is all I'm saying."

"You gonna be the one to deliver that news?" Tim's voice is hard.

"Don't do this, Timmy. I'm trying to help you."

"Well you can help yourself back down the ramp and leave, alright? I'll take my hits on the field just like everyone else."

Tim waits until the door closes behind Jay before he groans and shifts to lie down on the couch. The ice pack is melted, but still cool and he presses it to his side gingerly. Maybe if he lies there long enough Billy will come home and get him another beer. Right now, it's the only thing he can think about.

_/tbc/_


	2. Chapter 2

**Adaptation  
****Part 2**

Tim pulls up short out of the block. Third time in a row. He knows he's going to get his ear yelled off for playing like a freshman, but his ribs just can't take the pounding. It was all he could do to squeeze his bruised body into his gear. One hit and he'll probably pass out.

"Riggins!" The new head coach screams at him from the sidelines. "So help me God, son. If I have to nail your ass to Saracen's, I'll do it. You hear me?"

Tim ignores the orders. Talking back will only earn him more screaming. It's better to just keep his head down and try to make a play, any play. God damn it though if he doesn't think he can stand upright for five more seconds.

Saracen nudges shoulders with him in the huddle. "You playin' this or what?"

Tim leans hard on his legs, the effort simply to bend over nearly taxing beyond his limit. "Just get the ball away from me."

"Can't take the heat, Riggins?" one of the guys asks.

Another adds, "Riggins is retiring a year early, boys. Who wants fullback?"

Tim shakes his head and grits his teeth. "One play, Saracen. Just do it."

Matt grunts in reply and calls a play that will, hopefully, leave Tim free and clear. They line up and listen for the call. Tim bends over, his feet drumming the ground in preparation. The ball snaps, and Tim bounces up.

Bradley slams into his shoulder, spinning him around and dumping him in a quivering heap on the ground.

"Sorry, Riggins," Bradley says. The redhead stands over him, grinning. He holds his hand out to Tim who shakes it off. "Didn't see you there, man."

Tim groans and rolls gingerly onto his side. Bradley doesn't want his spot; he was as good as on the team before tryouts even started. But fucking with Tim is still a favorite pastime of the lineman. Tim should have realized he'd get no favors from Bradley Cole.

He's slow to get up, but manages to do it on his own. Coach is screaming something; Tim's pretty sure it's in his direction. He shuts everything out and walks slowly toward the bench, his right hand cupping his side.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Tim looks up. Coach is in front of the sun, darts of sunlight breaking around him to shoot directly into Tim's eyes. He squints and feels his equilibrium waver, like he's walking a tightrope without a net. He has to sit down before he falls down.

"Five minutes," Tim says. He just needs five minutes to catch his breath.

"You hurt?" Coach asks.

Behind them, Mac blows his whistle. "That's practice," he yells.

Tim shakes his head. Practice is over. He'll be better by tomorrow anyway.

Coach screws his lips angrily and jabs his finger at Tim's chest. "You owe me a practice."

Tim fights not to roll his eyes. No matter when Coach comes to collect on his practice, it could never be as bad as last year and the walk home that ended with the kiss that almost ruined everything.

Players are slinking off the field, tired and sweaty, all of them. Down the bench, near the coolers, Jay is bent over a playbook, scrawling something with his curled fingers wrapped around the stub of a pencil. He's not looking at Tim though, hasn't glanced in his direction all day.

Tim rises, slowly, and walks the line of benches—right past Jay who doesn't even look up.

* * *

"Riggins, I want to see you in the office."

Cat calls ring out across the dressing room. Someone who never played with Street and has no idea of what Jay might do if he overhears calls out, "Hey Riggs, your girlfriend wants you!"

Tim would like to say it never happened, but right then, with Jay waiting for him in the office like he's about to hand out detention, there's a moment when Tim wishes they were never friends. It hurts him worse than the embarrassment and when he walks through the office door his cheeks are burning—part from shame, part from anger.

"So I guess you know why you're here?" Jason starts.

Straight to the point. Fine, if that's the way it's going to be.

Tim eases over to the chair. He's tired, and wants to sit down, but then he sees the lack of handles on the chair and rethinks it. His ribs won't let him bend over, and he's not about to show Jason his weak side—not today.

Instead he flips his hair out of his face and stares straight back at his coach. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Tim." Jason is sighing like he's some goddamn parent that Tim never asked for. The shame is fading, the anger growing. "You can't keep acting like your spot on this team is some gift. It's not."

Brought up from junior high to play on JV, varsity as a sophmore. One season as captain already. Hadn't he earned the right to relax a little? Coast onto the team one final time?

"These are tryouts, and you're not trying. Plain and simple."

Tim wishes he could snap back, 'My ribs are bruised, maybe broken. But sorry, Coach, if that ain't trying hard enough for you.' He wishes he wasn't so stubborn that he can't admit the slightest weakness. Instead he braces himself for the cut. Maybe he'll take up golf—apparently there's a school team.

"You got one more shot to prove yourself. And this is coming from Coach, not just me." Jason stares straight at him.

One thing about Jay—he never was afraid to back down from a challenge.

Tim doesn't respond, just shifts his feet and fights the urge to raise his hand to his side again.

"Timmy…" There's a catch in Jay's voice. He dips his head, then raises it up, shaking it from side to side. "We're friends, right?"

Tim closes his eyes. Friends. Texas Forever. He doesn't respond.

"If you want help. If you need help…" Jason stresses 'need' like that's the expected response.

Opening his eyes, Tim nods once, quickly. "Got it. That it?"

Jay's quiet. Tim's doesn't need to be dismissed—in his eyes, Six is a team coach, and so far, Tim's not on this team. Jay's made that much perfectly clear. But he can't bring himself to leave. Maybe it's the pain rippling through his side, like fingers strumming a washboard in some jug band. Or maybe it's just the look on Jay's face, like he's about to impart some pearl of wisdom that will make Tim forget why he was mad in the first place. Then again, if he leaves he's got a 6-pack of beer waiting in the fridge at home that will get him a long way towards forgetting too.

Tim turns toward the door, but he's slow. Jay pushes out from the desk and scoots towards Tim's legs; he's quick, quicker than Tim's seen Jay move since that quad rugby game last fall. Tim's whole body tenses—he's never been afraid of Jay, but once bitten, twice shy…Tim's not looking for another fight.

Except Jason doesn't want to fight. His right hand reaches up and snags Tim's forearm. With his left, he brushes the minefield of bruises marring Tim's ribs. Tim's breath escapes his lips in a violent hiss, but he can't move. He's trapped within Jason's grip, his eyes lost in Jason's stare.

"You're hurt," Jason says simply.

"It's nothing," Tim responds.

Jason releases him, but doesn't move back. With his eyes, he indicates that Tim should sit down and finally Tim can't resist any longer. He paces around the chair until he can grip the back with his left hand and lower himself slowly, painfully, to the seat.

Jason is quiet for a long time, staring at Tim like he's deciding how best to devour him. Tim figures he has it coming. They've been warned about practicing while injured. He's no good to the team if he can't suit up for a game. He keeps his eyes on the floor, on his hands, on Jason's wheels, but he can't raise them to Jason's face. Six is supposed to be out in the locker room ribbing Tim for letting Bradley catch him unaware. Not sitting opposite him preparing to boot him from the team.

Finally, Jason sighs and rubs his hand across his forehead tiredly. "I'm just trying to do my job here. You and me, Timmy. State champions. Wasn't that the dream?"

Tim's voice is quiet. "You were supposed to be on the field with me. Not watching from the bench."

"I was out there, Tim. Maybe I wasn't calling the plays, but it was better than nothing."

"It's not good enough. It's not good enough for you."

Jason throws his arms out to his side, giving in with his whole being. "What do you want me to say? This is me."

Tim's not sure his voice will work. There's a lump in his throat the size of Texas. He coughs and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Not to me."

If Jason's angry, he's not showing it. In fact, he looks more sad than angry and that's making Tim squirm. Suddenly it feels hot in the office, like someone killed the air conditioning during the hottest week of the year.

"So what do you want me to do, Tim? Quit?"

Tim's eyes widen. Is that an option?

Jason stares straight at him, like he's waiting for Tim to just come right out and ask him to quit his job. Finally Tim drops his head and scrapes his sneaker over a blackened piece of gum on the floor.

"Nah, don't quit for me."

"Good, because I gotta tell you, the money's not half bad."

"Enough to buy your own beer?" Tim says lightly.

Jason laughs. "I'm holding out hope that Sergeant Street will get recognized when the season starts."

Tim smiles and shrugs. "I can hook you up." He pauses, realization dawning over him as he raises his eyes to Jay's, then drops them back to the floor. "If I make the team."

There's a soft click as Jason releases his brakes and rolls towards Tim. He stops just in front of Tim, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"How bad are those ribs? Really?"

"Not bad." Tim shifts unconsciously and his face winces at a fresh wave of pain.

"That's what I thought." Jay pushes away and rolls back behind the desk. "See the trainer and I'll write up a report that you got hurt today when Bradley dropped you." He looks up and gives Tim a 'you do what I tell you to' stare. "Today. Yesterday never happen."

Tim nods and leans as much weight on his legs as he can handle while he stands up. Jay's focused on writing and Tim stands there for a second, before turning and reaching for the door. He stops with his hand on the knob and looks back at his coach…his friend.

"Uh, thanks, and, you know, if you want that beer…"

"Do me a favor. Water and Advil and lots of rest for one day, no beer." Jason is all business, his mouth set in a straight line. Then it cracks just a little and he grins like he's 12. "We'll talk about beer tomorrow."

Tim nods and pulls open the door before things get too touchy-feely between them. The locker room is empty when he walks back out and he sees the trainer alone in the weight room. He turns once more to look back at Jay, still sitting in the office. Maybe this doesn't have to be a dictatorship. Jay's got Tim's best interest at heart, always has. And Tim can have Six's back in a whole new way—win another State championship for his coach. Not a bad goal.

_/fin/_


End file.
